Mist in the Mirror Page 7

  From the sitting room window, as I parted the heavy velvet curtains and looked down, I could just make out snow-covered gardens and playing fields, stretching away into the darkness. But the bedroom overlooked the main school yard, the cobbles, the King’s statue and the side of the towering chapel.

  The day’s newspapers and some journals were set out upon the desk, decanters of sherry and port stood on a table. I unpacked, bathed and, comfortable in robe and slippers, warmed myself with a glass, beside the fire.

  I had brought fresh writing books and a set of new pencils and these I set out, fully determined that first thing the next morning, on being conducted to the library, and shown the Vane archive, I would assume the mantle of scholar and biographer, and work quietly and steadily through the next few days. The vision appealed to me greatly, for though I had been a traveller for so long, an adventurer even, and rarely settled in any one place, I had read and studied and tried to make up for the gaps in my education and had even written, too, perhaps in emulation of Vane, some slight descriptive articles about the east and my journeys there. I began to dream now, sitting by the bright fire, of seeing my name in gold letters on the spines of impressive volumes, hearing myself referred to as ‘James Monmouth the scholar, Monmouth the writer’.

  My harmless fantasies were interrupted briefly by the arrival of a tray of supper, simple, excellent food, cooked, he said, by the porter himself, ‘school’s being down, sir, and therefore the cook’s away’. He also brought a letter from Dr Dancer, come by the late post.

  My dear Monmouth,

  This is to welcome you to Alton, and to apologise for my unavoidable absence this evening. I trust you will find all comfortable and to your convenience and liking. Biglow will see to things for you, and I shall expect to be with you tomorrow morning – I return very late tonight, weather permitting, but will not disturb you – to give you as much help as I am able, though that, I fear, will be little enough. Would you give me the pleasure of dining with me tomorrow evening?

  Yours etc.

  Valentine Dancer.

  Later, in pulling out my watch to wind it, I came upon the small card I had earlier tucked into my waistcoat pocket.

  LADY QUINCEBRIDGE

  PYRE

  HISLEY BEECHES

  BERKSHIRE

  HISLEY 25

  Her troubled face peering through the window of the railway carriage came to my mind, and, sitting in my armchair, beside the fire, I thought calmly over her peculiar warnings and the forebodings she had expressed to me, but could still make no more sense of them than of those from other quarters, nor, in these safe, agreeable surroundings, take them at all seriously. But I resolved to accept her invitation for Christmas nevertheless, because I had liked her, and, I suppose, been flattered, as well as grateful, but more, because I felt that the time had come to enter at least some way into English society and begin to make myself known there.

  I had always been a generally abstemious man but, that evening, drank a glass more port than was sensible, half-dozing before the heat of the fire, so that, when I stood to go to bed, I felt momentarily light-headed. But the bedroom was colder and I opened the window wide, and the smell of the fresh, snow-filled night air quickly brought me to my senses and cleared my head. As I leaned out a little way a thick seam of snow fell in a flurry far down into the yard below.

  Not a light showed, the buildings around me were silent. The sky had cleared and there were bright stars.

  My Guardian had sometimes spoken to me when I was a boy, about his Cambridge days, and I had formed a picture in my mind, augmented by engravings and pictures in books, of ancient walls and inner courts, quiet places devoted to learning and also echoing with the eager voices and swift steps of young men, and perhaps, though I was not a clever or very bookish boy, I had secretly begun to long for them and the longing had never quite left me, but remained, secret and half-forgotten. Now, it was stirred alive again, for I recognised that the school had many of the features of the old universities, and I stood for a long time looking down into the snow-covered yard, remembering my Guardian, happy to be at last a part of such a world.

  As I undressed, I speculated about Dr Valentine Dancer, whom I was to meet the next morning, and about the pile of black notebooks on my desk, and what was to fill them, and felt anticipation and satisfaction in equal measure. It had been a good day. I had much to look forward to. I counted myself a fortunate man.

  But then a chill breeze blew suddenly across the yard, and through my open window, and I shivered, and closed it, ready, now, for bed and sleep.

  As I turned, a gleam of light struck the mirror on the opposite wall, and I looked up to face, as I thought, my own reflection. But there was none, there was nothing but a blurred, dark outline. Due, I supposed, to some trick of the atmosphere, the mirror was quite misted over. But, as I came up close to it, I saw quite clearly through the blur, my own eyes, staring, glittering, wild with a dread and alarm, terror even, that I was quite unaware of feeling. The bed was a wide one, neatly made, with pillows piled up high but when I slipped in between the tightly banded sheets they were cold, cold as winding sheets and felt like running water to my touch, though when I had turned them back they had felt quite crisp and dry. The pillows, as I sank back into them, collapsed with a little puff. Outside, the clock chimed the half-hour, a clear, double stroke, echoing towards me.

  I lay shivering, and wide awake, and feeling nothing so much as a terrible sense of frustration and anger, that I was somehow to be forbidden peace of mind and pleasant expectations, that, whenever I was lulled and soothed and put at my ease by outward circumstances, I was then to be jerked out of that peace, my nerves were to be pulled taut as marionette strings, I was not allowed repose, but must be repeatedly startled and shocked into a state of fear and bewilderment and a sense of strangeness and dread by some slight but sinister and incongruous happening. I saw a pale, ragged boy, now here, now there, now following me, now a little ahead; I encountered hostility and was warned to leave, go back, beware. I was teased, I saw peculiar objects, and scenes that for no apparent reason awakened terror in me and made me want to run away, I heard singing and crying and then silence, in an empty house. The mirror had misted over.

  I had been made so welcome, spent as serene and happy an evening in this place as I could have wished and then – I almost cried out in a sudden surge of desperation. I felt trapped, I did not know what was happening to me, or what I was meant to do.

  Were the incidents linked, or quite random? Were they meaningless? Was I making connections where none existed? Had they meaning? Had anything? Were the phantoms and warnings and fearful moments brought about by anything outside myself, or was I losing my sanity? Was there nothing without, only things within?

  I lay stiff between the icy sheets and heard the next hour chime and then another, and saw the pale snow-light reflected in the mirror, and the walls and the coverlet of the bed, and at last, calmer, told myself that the unaccustomed wine and tiredness had disturbed me and heated my blood, and so, believing, drifted to sleep.

  But it was a restless and fretful one, wound about with veils of weird dreams. I seemed to be travelling, moving, wandering, unable to settle or find a way or distinguish anything that lay about me. I caught odd cries, then a shout, I seemed to fall, to sweat, to be sinking down through dark, turbulent, sucking water – all the stuff of fever and nightmare.

  When I woke, I was certain that, once again, a singing or crying had filled the room – or filled my head.

  But there was only a sweet and peaceful stillness and silence and, beyond the half-drawn curtains, the falling snow. The clock chimed two. My mouth was cracked and dry, my throat sore. I wanted water and knew that I would not easily sleep again and did not want to lie there for hours, a prey to yet more dreams and fantasies, so that I rose briskly, dressed and went into the sitting room.

  There was still a glow in the heart of the fire, which I had banked up, and I stirred i
t carefully to make a cavity, out of which soon came a lick of flame, and a little warmth. For a while, I sat, huddled, close beside it in the darkness, drinking a glass of water, and, gradually, I was composed again, the last trails of nightmare had loosened and dissolved away and I was returned to my old strength and even a feeling of vigour. It was curious, a repeat of what had happened before, as though, once out of some fit of nervousness and depression, I gained a fresh strength and command of myself again. I had never been prey to such complete and dramatic changes of mood and even of physical state. But, almost as if to prove to myself that I was man again, I decided to take a turn beyond my set of rooms, to explore some way down those corridors, gain a better sense of my surroundings. It could do no harm after all, no one would prevent me, and no sooner had I thought of the idea than I was full of it, restless, and almost excited, keyed up like a small boy, off exploring. I put on my overshoes and coat, mindful of the snow, should I venture outside the buildings, and, taking up the torch that had been provided for me, went quietly out, down the steep, short flight of stairs and through the door below, into the long, panelled corridor.

  It was utterly silent. I stood still, sensing the walls and windows of the old buildings around me, and thought that I could almost hear the air itself as it settled back after I closed the door. Opposite me, the silvery light filtered through the leaded windows, set in their stone embrasures, and I noticed now that various large old books lay on the ledges. I opened one, and then others at random, but they were in Greek, Latin and Hebrew quite impenetrable to me, their pages musty and yellowing. I wondered how long it had been since anyone had last touched one.

  The portraits that lined the walls were of little more interest – elderly men with sombre, hawk-like features, and bland clerics, though there were one or two frail, beautiful young men with flowing locks and mournful doe-eyes, poets who had been at Alton and died romantically young.

  Though no one was there to see or hear me, I put out my torch and walked almost on tip-toe, cautiously, affected by the atmosphere and even half-amused at myself for such night-adventuring. I put my hand out to the latch of a couple of the other doors which I presumed led to similar sets to my own, but they were locked, as were those which sported the brass plates of Bursar, Chaplain, Provost.

  I was losing interest and about to turn back, when I saw the door at the far end of the second long corridor – the Old Library – and at once made my way towards it.

  It was as I was a few paces from the door that I began to have the sensation of being watched, watched and silently followed. I spun round and shone my torch behind me, for the windows had ended here and the corridor was pitch dark. There was no one. I went quietly back a few yards, stopped and waited, straining my ears through the silence. Perhaps the wood settled every now and again, perhaps a board creaked. Perhaps they did not. I waited again, and then said in a low voice, ‘Who is there?’ There was no reply and, impatient with myself and my imaginings, I turned back and went again to the library door.

  I expected it to be locked, like the rest, but it swung open slowly to my touch, so that, involuntarily, I jumped back. The sensation of being watched was stronger and now my nerves were on edge and I cursed myself for a fool, not to have remained in my bed, where I would surely by now have been peacefully asleep. But my curiosity grew, for I was eager to examine the library, where I planned to be working for the next few days, and beginning to be fascinated by the grave, venerable beauty of this ancient place.

  I stepped inside, and stood, letting my eyes grow accustomed to the change of light. I found myself in a room that stretched far ahead of me into the gloom. But there was enough of the soft, snow-reflected light coming in through the tall windows for me to have a view of a gallery, that ran the whole way around, rising towards the vaulted and elaborately carved ceiling. I felt no fear, but rather a sense of awe, as if I had entered some church or chapel.

  Oak bookcases were lined on either side of the central aisle, with desks set in the spaces between, and as I looked up I could see more book stacks that rose behind the gallery, up to which iron spiral staircases led at intervals.

  I went to a window, and saw that the library ran along the north end of the buildings framing the yard, at right angles to the chapel.

  I turned away and began to walk softly between the bookcases, looking in awe to left and right, at the evidence of so much knowledge, so much learning, far beyond the level of school-age boys. I stopped to examine books on literature and the classics, the history of science, philosophy and theology, and then came upon rows of leather-bound archives of the school, magazines, journals, directories, lists. Somewhere within these, I knew, would be references to Vane, but I did not take out any now, I wandered on, with a growing and curious sense of being a king in some abandoned kingdom, with access to all the wisdom of the ages – such strange, grandiose thoughts flit into the mind under the influence of impressive surroundings, solitude, and the small hours.

  It was as I approached the last few bays that I heard what at first I took to be the soft closing of the door at the far end of the room, but which went on, even and regular, like the breathing of someone asleep, a sighing that seemed to come out of the air above my head, as though the whole, great room were somehow a living thing, exhaling around me. I glanced up at the gallery. Someone was there, I was certain of it. The wood creaked. A footfall. I was as far from my way of escape as I could have been, trapped alone in this empty place with – whom? What?

  ‘With nothing,’ I said, aloud and boldly, scornfully – but then started at the sound of my own voice. ‘Nothing.’ And went to the spiral staircase nearest to me, and began to climb, my steps echoing harshly in the stillness of the room.

  The gallery was dark, high and narrow, with only a foot or two of passage between the bookstacks, and the wooden rail. I switched off my torch. The air up here was colder, but at the same time oddly dead, and close, as though the dust of years, the dust of books and learning and thought, was packed tightly, excluding any freshness.

  The soft breathing came again, from a different place, in the darkness just ahead of me and I began to edge forwards, and then to stop, move and stop, but it was always just out of reach. I looked down into the great barrel of the room below. Every shadow seemed like a crouched, huddled figure, every corner concealed some dreadful shape. There was no one there. There was nothing. There was everything. ‘Who is there?’ I said. ‘What do you want of me?’ Or would have said had not my throat constricted and my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth, so that no sound was possible. I wanted to run but could not and knew that this was what was intended, that I should be terrified by nothing, by my own fears, by soft breathing, by the creak of a board, by the very atmosphere which threatened me.

  But, after a time of silence and stillness, I summoned up enough strength and steadiness of nerve to walk slowly, step by step, around the gallery, glancing down now and then but seeing nothing, until I came to the last staircase, and by that descended to the ground again. As I returned to the corridor, closing the door of the library behind me, I caught sight of a light moving about irregularly on the opposite side, and, as I rounded the corner, I glimpsed a dark-coated figure walking slowly, and holding up a lantern – the porter, I supposed, on his rounds, and felt a wave of relief so great that it all but felled me and took my breath, and I was forced to lean against the wall for a few seconds, so giddy did I become.

  He it had been, watching me, following me, perhaps standing in the darkness of the library below, going about his duty, and suspecting prowlers, come, silently and stealthily, to investigate. Whether he had recognised or even seen me I could not be sure, but if so he had decided to leave me to look after myself and for that I was grateful – I felt somewhat sheepish at having gone about, trying doors, entering rooms without invitation, and I preferred to return quietly to my set and not be accosted.

  He had gone off through the baize door, before I reached the bend in the co
rridor; I saw no more of his flickering light. All was quiet. The portraits looked down upon me blankly as I went by but I had no other sense of being seen.

  And then I heard something else. It came from behind another door, an oak one set well back into the wall, with a green curtain pulled half across, and partially concealing it.

  I stood up close to it and waited, listened. It came again, faintly, from somewhere deep within, and was quite unmistakable. What I heard was a boy weeping, the sobs now muffled slightly, now clear, as though he were raising and then burying his head again, and in between there was every so often a catching of breath, like a gasp, followed by more weeping. It was a sound so desolate, and of such loneliness and despair, that I felt outrage and anger and the urge to rescue him, to comfort, help, protect, and I put my hand to the door handle, ready to fling it open and burst in. But the lock did not give, the door was bolted and barred and, though I pushed against it and rattled the knob and even banged at it twice very hard, I made no impression, nor did I still the weeping, which continued without pause until I could bear it no longer. I could not break my way in to reach him, but there was someone who surely would.

  I made off swiftly down the corridor towards the baize door. The snow lay thick, soft and undisturbed by any mark or footprint in the school yard, the surface gleaming faintly blue in the moonlight. It was intensely cold, the air crackling with frost. I was in such a state of anxiety about the distress of the hidden boy that for the moment I did not think anything about the pristine state of the snow, only plunged directly across it, sinking down and having to push my way forward with a great effort. I was breathless and desperate to find the porter – I would have to look for him first in the lodge, to which I prayed he had just returned – otherwise, he might be anywhere among these unfamiliar buildings, still on his night rounds.